PROJECT 2025

by Janet Blair

Call me crotchety and loud
ineffective and utopian 
unrealistic and wasteful.

Laugh as I hold postered signs 
made with markers and glitter 
waving them at street corners downtown 
chanting about democracy 
calling out to the cars honking in agreement.

Roll your eyes.
Say it will not make one iota of difference.
We are awash in red here, completely surrounded. 

As the blood seeps in,

words are banned and bodies under lock.

They machete through decades of progress
rewrite dictionaries and craft spells to spoon feed 
the dozing people around us.  

Still, I will stomp
call out to the moon and paint my face 
bottling up today's screams 
to send floating toward the future

never choosing silence or submission. 

You see, I was trained for this shit early on—
learned how to cradle a cry inside when the belt lashed
how to hold my head up the next day 
and look a tyrant straight in the eye

how to march through the 

shredded gift-wrapping paper

and blooming bluish bruises 
toward an exit sign 
at the end of a long, long hallway of years. 

I know how to crawl 
                                toward the light... 

Janet Blair lives and works in the Tampa Bay area. Currently, she is a weekend poet who dreams of writing full time. Her most recent work can be found in South Florida Poetry Journal (SoFloPoJo), The Florida Bards Anthology and The Eckerd Review.

CAN YOU LET THE CICADA BE BEAUTIFUL?

by Morrow Dowdle

When one, newly broken from its honeyed shell

tests flight’s imperative,

   whirs, strikes your skin,

will you turn to see who’s there?  Don’t look up.

Don’t think you deserve only what’s lofted.

This holy spirit lies on asphalt on its back.

 

Reconsider where it comes from, this fear

of what that can’t harm us. 

        Why do we hate it?

Turn it over if you are brave enough to touch it. 

Braver still if you will lift it.  Make your fingers

delicate as chopsticks on a robin’s egg.

Don’t pitch it in the grass.  Let it cling

to your wrist,

           its legs’ gentle sharpness.  You are just

another kind of tree, flesh-barked.  It crawls

your arm, and that’s when you see its eyes of red,

such a red we could never manifest—

not the richest lips, not the sex in its engorged

glory.  And its wings,

           its wings when they unstick,

intricate as any dragonfly, yet you’ll never find them

enshrined in silver, glass, or amethyst.

Are you brave enough, now, to allow it

to approach your head?  You have no xylem, no sap

for it to taste.  Nothing

                                     to dread.  But would you kiss it?

Could you name it the most modest of angels,

if much disgraced?  An angel must have wings,

but surely, it can wear any face.

 

Morrow Dowdle has poetry published in or forthcoming from New York Quarterly, Pedestal Magazine, Fatal Flaw, and Poetry South, among others. They have been nominated for the Pushcart and Best of the Net.  They edit poetry for Sunspot Literary Journal and host “Weave & Spin,” a performance series featuring marginalized voices. A former physician assistant, they now work as a creative writing instructor for current and former prison inmates. They live in Hillsborough, NC.